


dance with me

by rizcriz



Series: the i love you collection [9]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, Longing, M/M, Post Season 4, Sappiness, quentin didn't successfully kill himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 15:56:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21394801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: What was it he’d said in his happy place all those months ago?Oh, right.He promised to be brave.One moment of bravery for a lifetime of happiness. Quentin had been brave, back in Fillory, when he’d kissed Eliot that first time. And the culmination of that one moment had been fifty years of ups and downs and — Maybe Eliot just has to be the one to take that leap this time.--or, another i love you
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: the i love you collection [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1295594
Comments: 14
Kudos: 192





	dance with me

**Author's Note:**

> this one is "through song"

They’re celebrating. 

The monster and his sister are gone — for good, hopefully — Quentin managed not to get himself killed despite a valiant attempt, so Eliot hears, Margo’s happy, Josh is, well, Josh, Kady and Alice are fixing the library, Penny and Julia are on some weird discovery quest — and despite the joint trauma of having all been the singular source of everything bad in the magical world for the past three years — they’re celebrating. Fogg’s even been so kind as to let them steal the physical kids cottage for the weekend; though, Eliot assumes it’s mostly so they’ll leave him out of whatever they’re planning next. 

As of now, there are no future quests — for Eliot, Margo, and Quentin, at least; no danger, monsters, or gods or battles with their names on their lists. No crowns or kingdoms in desperate need of their leadership and lives. 

And as of now, Quentin’s sitting on the couch with the first glimpse of a smile on his lips he’s had since Eliot woke up, and Kady’s sitting next to him on his left, while Margo’s on his right, turned to him. She’s got one knee tucked up under her, and is playing with a strand of his hair as she tells him something Eliot can’t hear from his place across the room. 

His hairs not as long as it once was. It’s still jarring, waking up, and seeing them all the same, but different. Margo’s a werewolf. Alice isn’t public enemy number one. Kady’s actually nice. Quentin’s hair is shorter, and he’s a little broken. 

Eliot adjusts his stance and leans against the doorframe leading into the kitchen and tilts his head. He remembers the spike in his chest, when Alice, Penny, and Quentin returned from the mirror realm. Alice storming past the living room, where he sat on the couch anxiously waiting, stitches stinging his skin. Remembers the glint of tears streaking her cheeks.

And Penny traveling into the living room, guilt and rage clouding his eyes. 

Him pausing, with a heaving chest and looking down at Eliot. Working his jaw before saying, “Your boy tried to kill himself.” 

Eliot shakes the memory away with a flick of his hair and crosses his arms, a small little smile working its way across his lips. Because Quentins not dead. And all the mirror realm dramas behind them. Buried in therapy and talks and surviving. And Quentin — sweet, beautiful, living Quentin — is laughing at something Kadys said, the sound vibrant and quaking the entire room. Or maybe not. Maybe it's Eliot’s heart pounding in frantic succession, waiting for him to say something that makes it feel like the earth's trembling beneath his feet. Waiting to tell Quentin what’s needed to be said for weeks — longer, even, if he thinks back to that day in the throne room. 

Julia sidles up next to him. “Why’re you hiding in the corner? From what I hear you’re the party king of Brakebills.”

“And don’t you forget it.” He shrugs a shoulder without looking away from Quentin. “I’m not hiding. He’s been nervous around me lately. I just — wanted to give him some space.” 

And, Eliot thinks somewhat bitterly, despite everything, he’s still a bit of a coward. Afraid the little stint Quentin and Alice had before the mirror realm and everything after might have changed things. Afraid Quentin might not feel the same or want the same things. 

Julia hums thoughtfully. “Sounds more like you needed the space.” She moves in and bumps her shoulder against his arm. “Qs never been one for needing space. Not when it comes to . . .” She trails off and he tears his gaze away from Quentin, with his crinkling eyes and bright smile, to look down at her. She smiles knowingly. “I was going to say these things. But, without breaking the best friend code, all I can really say is — you.” 

“No offense, but —“

“I’m not telling you how to live your life. I’m just saying, that with all the trauma and terror we’ve all experienced the past four years. Maybe holding back isn’t the right move.”

He does have to admit that holding back is what had him lying in the bed in the infirmary, practically half dead. And it is technically what lead to him pulling the trigger on the monster in blackspire. He’ll also admit to lying awake most nights wondering if everything would have gone down differently if he’d trusted that Quentin wouldn’t break what was left of his heart. Or that he could be capable of giving Quentin the love he deserves. 

He looks back across the room. Margos smirking over Quentins shoulder at Kady, that dangerous smirk that she usually reserves for torturing Todd. 

“Without breaking your supposed best friend code,” Eliot says, swallowing, “how over are things with him and Alice?”

Julia huffs out a breath. “They talked. After you woke up.”

“And?”

“That’s all I can say. You have to talk to him for details.”

He sighs. “Scale of one to ten, your helpfulness rates a 3.” 

Laughing, she nods and turns back into the room with everyone else. “A few weeks ago it was lower,” she says, “Good to see I’m doing better these days.” 

“Amazing what diluting the god juices does.”

“Truly.” She smiles. “Take a chance, Eliot. You have nothing to lose that you won’t lose by keeping quiet.” 

And then she turns around and heads straight for Kady, arms stretched out. Kady lets herself be pulled up with a reluctant laugh, and she drags Quentin up along with her. Quentin quickly grabs Margo’s wrist before he’s all the way up, and before Eliot even knows what’s happening — everyone’s on their feet, dancing to the crappy synth rock from Josh’s phone. 

Quentin’s a wild mess. At the center of them all, laughing and waving his arms about like he thinks he’s dancing. A sense of Deja vu washes over him — back to Teddy’s wedding. When they were drunk on Fillorian booze, singing Fillorian songs to the sound of Meredith from the village down the streams weird guitar. Happy. Dancing like idiots — high on more than just the opium in the air. On each other. Their family. How much they loved one another. He remembers thinking, then, how relieved he was to have found that life, there, because he’d been so certain he’d never find it on earth. 

But he could. He can. What was it he’d said in his happy place all those months ago? 

Oh, right.

He promised to be brave. 

One moment of bravery for a lifetime of happiness. Quentin had been brave, back in Fillory, when he’d kissed Eliot that first time. And the culmination of that one moment had been fifty years of ups and downs and — Maybe Eliot just has to be the one to take that leap this time. 

So he sets his shoulders, pushes away from the doorframe, and marches across the room. The others part before him, like they’ve been waiting for this moment. Quentin’s back is to him, but Eliot can hear his breathless laughter, even as Margo lets go of his hands, and grins over his shoulder at Eliot. 

The song isn’t nearly close to being over, but it crackles and then changes. A soft melody extinguishes synth and vapor lyrics. And Eliot swallows down all the anxiety bubbling up in his stomach because it’s nowhere near as strong as the warmth spreading through his chest out into his veins. Comfort. He reaches up and taps Quentin on the shoulder just as he stops jumping. 

He turns around, cheeks flushed, breathless. His hairs sticking to his forehead, and his eyes are glinting beneath the crappy cottage lighting. He’s beautiful. 

  
  


_ Come away with me in the night, _

_ Come away with me _

  
  


“Eliot,” Quentin breathes, grin settling into something softer. “There you are.”

Eliot's heart slams against his rib cage, but he forces a suave tick of shoulders. “Here I am,” he says, as Norah Jones plays, music seemingly growing louder — less like the crackling noise at full volume from Josh's phone and more like someone’s spelled it; amplified it so it fills the room. “Dance with me.” 

  
  


_ Come away with me on a bus, _

_ Come away where they can’t tempt us _

_ With their lies _

_ And I wanna walk with you  _

_ On a cloudy day _

Quentin makes a face, confusion pinching his cheeks and brow. “We  _ are _ dancing.” 

He’s so painfully oblivious, sometimes. Someone somewhere far away but probably actually right behind Eliot clears their throat, and Eliot takes a step closer, so he has to tuck his chin to look down at Quentin. He reaches out, grazing one hand along Quentins arm, following the length of it, until it dips into his shoulder and brushes along his collarbone. Keeps going, a careful, feather light touch, until his fingers find their home — that space at the back of Quentin’s neck. He taps his fingers on the line of his spine gently, and then flattens his hand. 

“Dance with  _ me,” _ he says again, softer. 

Quentin's Adam’s apple bobs, and he nods — a jerky movement that says everything and nothing all at once. “Okay.” 

  
  


_ Come away with me and we’ll kiss _

_ On a mountain top _

_ Come away with me— _

  
  


Quentin's hand comes up, settling carefully on Eliot's hip. Eliot uses his free hand to reach out and laces his fingers through Quentins. 

  
  


— _ and I’ll never stop loving you.  _

_ And I wanna wake up with the rain _

_ Falling on a tin roof _

He lets Quentin guide them, a gentle sway side to side. Quentin's hand travels up, settles, firm and sure, in the dip between Eliot's ribs and hip. “What is this?” He asks, after a beat. There’s hesitance to it, a brief stuttering and a confused, frustrated huff of air. 

Eliot leans down to press his head to the side of Quentins, using this hold on each other to pull him in closer so they’re pressed chest to chest. His chin dips into Quentin’s temple, and Quentin’s hand clenches Eliot's tight while the hand on Eliot's hip fists the fabric there. 

“An apology. A truth. A risk.” Eliot shrugs. “The catalyst? I don’t know what to call it, Q.” 

  
  


_ So all I ask is for you _

_ To come away with me in the night  _

_ Come away with me  _

  
  


“Try?”

The song ends, but Eliot barely registers anything other than the melody fading away until it’s just the sound of Quentin’s breathing, and the shuffling of their feet on the carpet. 

He pulls away, just enough to look at Quentin. Brings their hands up, still laced together, and presses them to the side of Quentin’s throat. He nods. “Okay.” 

Quentin raises his eyebrows. “Okay?”

Eliot's fingers at the back of Quentin’s neck dip into the hair there, tangling themselves one the short knots there. He takes a deep breath, and smiles, anxiety bubbling up in his stomach again. He wonders if this is what butterflies feel like. If Quentin, after everything they’ve done and been through, can seriously bring to life a swarm of butterflies at the base of his sternum — but the thoughts barely formed before it’s banished with a yes. Yes he can. He’s always been able to. Eliot just doesn’t need to dismiss it as nausea anymore. 

“Long story or short?”

“Short.” No hesitance. His eyes are so wide and shining and he lifts up onto the balls of his feet when he says it, nodding. “Short,” he repeats, softer, quieter, as he falls back to his normal height. 

Eliot can’t help the find little smile that blossoms. His thumb brushes up against Quentin’s jawline, and he watches it. Revels in the stuttered breath it pulls from Quentin’s chest. In the way Quentin’s hand tightens around Eliots involuntarily. 

“Okay,” Eliot says, tearing his gaze away from Quentin’s jaw to look him in the eye. “Short story, it is.” He opens his mouth, closes it. “I just — need a second to—“

The hand on his hip withdraws, and for a fraction of a heartbeat Eliot fears he’s messed it all up. He squeezes his eyes shut, not sure he could take watching Quentin walk away — but the hand comes back. Warm and familiar on his collarbone. A soft thumb brushes over the skin peeking out from Eliot's unbuttoned collar, and it pulls the words right out —

“I love you.” The thumb stills, and Eliot opens his eyes. Nods. Quentin's eyes are glassy, but wide, with his eyebrows doing that thing they do when he’s trying to make sense of something. “I. Am in love with you.” And then, because Eliots never not been one for a dramatic flair even in the most inopportune situations, he adds, “Quentin Coldwater.”

Because their story began there, once.

With a name on a card. 

“I’m in love with you,” he repeats. The words ricochet in his chest, clanging around with his heart beat like a celebratory storm of relief and hope and joy and longing. 

Quentin swallows loud enough for Eliot to hear. And then that hand so carefully draped over Eliot's collarbone, drags up — up, up, up until it can cup Eliot's jaw. He doesn’t say anything for a beat, eyes raking over Eliot's face like he’s searching for something. But then —

“That’s a hell of a short story.” 

Eliot nods, eyes fluttering closed. “It is,” he agrees, leaning into the touch. “Wanna hear the long version?”

Quentin laughs, a surprised, wet sound. “Not  _ now _ ,” he says, thumb brushing along Eliot's cheekbone. “Definitely later. Open your eyes.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“El.” 

It’s not demanding, because that’s not Quentin. But it does command his eyes open. Until he’s blinking away the fear and the past, and just staring down at a bright eyed Quentin Coldwater. 

“What changed?” 

Eliot shakes his head, squeezing the back of Quentin’s neck. “Nothing,” he says, “Nothing  _ changed.  _ I’ve always loved you. I just — I’m taking a page from the Quentin Coldwater play book.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“It means,” he dips down to press the crown of his head to Quentin’s. “I’m trying to be brave.” 

Quentin’s breath hitches, and his hand slips down to clutch at the fabric of Eliot’s shirt. “I — I don’t know what to say to that.” 

“Say you still want,” he pauses, eyes dipping down to where their hands are laced. “You still  _ want.”  _ He pauses again, exhaling. 

“El...”

The tone of his voice — the anxious fluttering at the edges of it makes the rest of it come bubbling out. 

“Say. You want me. And a life together and — not in Fillory. Not during a quest. Not when we have this stupid idealized perfect setting where we can have it. Say you want it here. Where my sense of smell is still fucked from years of cocaine, and where my bones ache and creak because I let a monster out of its cage and it abused my body.” He curls his lips in and pulls back, bringing his hand around to cup Quentin’s cheek. “Say you want  _ this.  _ To be  _ real.” _ He makes a face, shrugging. “Because I do. I want to fight for this, Q. I don’t want to run from you.” 

“Oh.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Quentin nods. “Yes. Oh.” 

“What does  _ oh  _ mean? I may love you but I’m not fluent in—“ Quentin’s hand comes around and clamps down over Eliot's mouth, an unamused raise of his eyebrows daring Eliot.

“It means,” He says, after a moment, swallowing and dropping his hand back down to Eliot's collarbone. “Of all the different ways I imagined this — this conversation. I, uh. Never imagined. The — the look. In your eyes.” 

“You’ve imagined this?”

“Vividly. Usually it involves me calling you an idiot. May have been one or two I was angry and called you a coward but that was because—“

“I was being one.”

Quentin deflates. “. . . Yeah.” He looks down at where his hand is on Eliot's collar, and picks at the fabric there. “We were both dumb. I knew what you were doing. But I was afraid of ruining things if I — if I said as much. You can be so stupidly stubborn.” 

“Takes one to know one.” Quentin’s gaze snaps back up. “Sorry. But you  _ are _ just as stubborn as I am.” 

“And you love me.”

Eliot nods. “God help me, I really do.” 

“Then why haven’t you —“ he breaks off, wrinkling his nose and looking away.

Eliot frowns, slipping his hand up to tug at his hair. “Q?” What’d he do wrong? How’d he fuck it up? 

“Don’t sound so alarmed,” Quentin murmurs, shaking his head as he looks back up. “I just — I knew you’d laugh at me if I said what I was going to say so I. Uh—“ He breaks off with a of his eyes, and before Eliot can so much as think to ask what’s happening, the hand on the collar of his shirt fists in the fabric and yanks him down. Cool, wet warmth washes over Eliot's lips, and his eyes slide shut, pushing into the feeling of Quentin kissing him. 

They pull away too soon, and Quentin’s gazing up at him — eyes dark and shining all at once, lids hooded. Eliot smiles down at him, brushes his hair back. Can’t help the giddy swoop of his stomach when it refuses to stay tucked behind Quentin’s ear. His finger brushes along the edges of his hairline, as Quentin’s hand clenches and unclenches in Eliot's shirt. 

“Oh,” Eliot says.

Quentin stares at him, and then slowly, like a string unraveling from a sweater, his eyes crinkle up, and his smile takes over his whole face as he laughs. He moves in and buries his face against Eliot's chest, laughing into Eliot's heart. 

Eliot twists his neck so he can rest his forehead on top of Quentin’s. “What’s so funny?” He asks into his hair. 

“We’re in a room surrounded by our friends have the most intimate moment of our lives.” 

Eliot looks around, bring his hand down to wrap around Quentin’s back. “To my utmost surprise,” he says. “Our dearest friends have left us to our own devices.” 

“What?” Quentin’s head pops back up — nearly colliding with Eliot's chin in the process. He makes an apologetic face, but then takes a look around for himself. “. . . Did they plan this?”

“Julia did tell me I’m an idiot.”

“And Margo told me I’m an oblivious sad sack.”

Eliot hums. “And they did queue up that song fast.”

Quentin huffs out a laugh, unwinding their laced hands, and running his through his hair. “It’s like a matchmaker intervention.”

“Do we say thank you?”

His eyes go wide. “If we acknowledge it they’ll take credit for our whole relationship.” 

The corners of Eliot's lips twitch as his stomach swoops, and he drags his hands down to grip Quentin’s hips and pull him back in. “Relationship, huh?” Before Quentin can panic, Eliot leans down and presses a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah?” Quentin twists just enough to press their lips together, murmurs against the sensitive skin there, “me too.” 

“You know what I’m most excited for?”

Quentin leans back to look up at him — but his dart back and forth between Eliot's mouth and eyes. “What?”

“Our first fight.” Quentin makes a face but Eliot just grins, bringing his hands together on Quentin’s lower back and lacing them together, while Quentin’s come up to weave together behind Eliot's neck. “Because it’ll be different. When we fight we’ll know we’ll come back together. We’re not going to be balancing on the beam of fear.” 

“Gymnastics on the TV again?”

“The penthouse didn’t have cable. It was the  _ only _ thing on TV.” He smirks. “Though, I wouldn’t be averse to learning a few of those —“

Quentin leans up on his toes and kisses him again. “Shut up,” he laughs, muffled, into Eliot's lips. 

“Okay.” He kisses him back, but then pulls back, laughing as Quentin huffs, frustrates, and flares up at him. “Wait I just have one more thing to say.”

“Yes?” It’s equal parts annoyed and fond and Eliot loves him and loves that he can say it and think it and —

“I love you.”

The annoyance evaporates and a shy little smile takes its place. “I love you, too,” he says. 

Eliot grins, blissed out higher on hope and love than any drug he ever took pre-monster and fillory. He leans in and brushes his nose up against Quentin’s. “Good.” He unravels his hands and casts a spell, smiling as music drifts out over the living room. “Dance with me.” 

Quentin beams. “You’re an idiot.”

“Oh hush, you  _ love _ me.” He laughs as Quentin rolls his eyes and lets himself be lead. Swaying along to the music, his head resting on Eliot's chest, while their hands find one another, clutching tight between them, up against their chests. 

Eliot rests his chin atop Quentin’s head and hums along with the song. 

  
  


_ Wise men say _

_ Only fools rush in  _

_ But I can’t help _

_ Falling in love with you  _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
